


Cat and Mouse

by Aces_and_Roses



Series: Bad Things, Coming to a Story Near You! [4]
Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: Gen, Injury, Post-Season/Series 03, Pre-Season/Series 04, zolf is mentioned for like one line at the end
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-31
Updated: 2020-01-31
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:34:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22489510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aces_and_Roses/pseuds/Aces_and_Roses
Summary: Oscar Wilde was beginning to think that he may have made a mistake.Well, that wasn’t quite accurate.Oscar Wilde knew, definitively, that he had made a grievous mistake, a horrendous error in judgement, and now he was more than likely going to have to suffer the consequences of his hubris.
Series: Bad Things, Coming to a Story Near You! [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1473476
Comments: 2
Kudos: 29





	Cat and Mouse

**Author's Note:**

> For the BTHB prompt: Outnumbered in a fight

Oscar Wilde was beginning to think that he may have made a mistake.

Well, that wasn’t quite accurate.

Oscar Wilde knew, definitively, that he had made a grievous mistake, a horrendous error in judgement, and now he was more than likely going to have to suffer the consequences of his hubris.

What had he been thinking, deciding to go chase down this lead on his own?

The answer was obvious, he supposed; he hadn’t been. He’d been sleep-deprived, and frustrated, and desperate to finally be able to do _something_ himself instead of constantly sending Zolf, or Carter, or Barnes out in his stead. That didn’t justify his poor decision-making, nor did it change the consequences of his actions but, somewhere in the back of his mind, being able to understand his own thought processes was reassuring to him (being able to be certain, without a doubt, that it had been _his_ choice, not something else invading his mind). Not that the reassurance really mattered, given that he was probably going to die very soon.

Very, _very_ soon, if the steady flow of blood seeping from between the fingers of the hand pressed against his side was any indication.

He just wished he hadn’t been so _stupid_ , walking right into the, at best rudimentary, trap so willingly. He just wished that someone among the ten, no twelve, people surrounding him would do him the favour of just killing him already. But alas, it seemed as though he wouldn’t have his wish granted; they all seemed perfectly content to watch and laugh as he slowly bled out.

There was no escaping this, he was well aware; no miracles waiting in the wings to save him, and no chance of escape on his own. Perhaps if there were only two or three infected he could fight them off in some way or other, but not twelve. He knew his own abilities, and while he may have had a good deal of confidence in them, he wasn’t an idiot. Even he had his limits, and he’d reached and exceeded them the moment he’d decided that venturing out on his own was a good idea.

It seemed a bit like overkill, if he was honest. _Twelve_ infected, just waiting on the off chance that someone was idiotic enough to fall for their scheme, rather than doing something, _anything_ , even marginally more useful to their cause. If he were more of an optimist, he might hope that meant they were expecting more people, that he may be able to hold out until they got there (that he even had half a chance of getting out of this alive). But he was, if anything, a pessimist; even if more people were meant to fall for this trick, he was well aware he likely wouldn’t survive long enough to meet them, whether that would be due to the blood loss or simply because the infected got tired of waiting for his inevitable demise.

As he considered the prospect, and as if his thoughts had been the cue they were waiting for, the infected abruptly lost their patience. An agitated mumble ran through the circle, some shifting foot to foot as they stared at him, expressions on their faces that he couldn’t identify. One stepped forward, eyes glittering with vindictive joy, spinning her dagger in her hand. She darted toward him with an agility Oscar hadn’t been prepared for, dagger lashing out so quickly that he was barely able to dodge out of the way in time.

A laugh rippled through the rest of the infected as she turned to face him again, a sharp grin slashed across her face. Then, a shove from behind, making him stumble forward, a gasp tearing out of him as his attempt to keep his balance jostled the wound in his side.

The woman was on him before he was able to recover, leering, the point of her dagger pressed just below his sternum. Her free hand grasped Oscar’s shoulder hard, keeping him in place with bruising force. But instead of thrusting the blade forward to deliver the killing blow, she slashed downward, carving a deep gash nearly down to Oscar’s hip. He cried out, staggering backward as the harsh grip on his shoulder suddenly relented.

As more laughter echoed through the room, Oscar came to a realization: they were _playing_ with him. They were treating this like some sick form of entertainment, getting their fill of his pain until the moment they decided it wasn’t fun any longer. And _gods_ , did that make him angry; the kind of useless, all-consuming anger that wouldn’t get him anywhere in this situation, but made him feel better all the same.

And so the game of cat and mouse continued; one person from the circle of infected would lash out, Oscar would dodge and, as the loss of blood made him more and more unsteady, would inevitably move too close to the edge of the circle, only to be forced back into the center. He would stumble, or move too slowly, and earn another injury for his troubles, which in turn made him slower, and more prone to stumbling. A horrible, vicious cycle.

Until suddenly it was broken - the far wall of the room collapsing with a rumble. Dust filled the air, and Oscar coughed weakly, suppressing a groan at the pain the motion brought with it. He didn’t have time to think about the pain, didn’t even have time to consider who would have blown through the wall; the infected were distracted, and it was entirely possible this would be his only chance to escape alive.

He didn’t let himself consider that his plethora of wounds might be too much to recover from, that he might collapse on the way back to the inn, never to recover.

Instead, he staggered forward, narrowly avoiding colliding with his most recent assailant and, though he would never admit it, nearly weeping in relief as Zolf’s voice rang out through the din a moment later, calling his name.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on tumblr at redactedquill if anyone wants to shoot me a prompt!


End file.
